


The Lies We Tell

by dragongoats



Category: Dragon Age II
Genre: Bad Decisions, Bad Parenting, Bisexual Character, Canon-Typical Violence, Eventual Happy Ending, F/M, M/M, Non-Binary Hawke - Freeform, Sibling Rivalry, Trans Hawke
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-12-27
Updated: 2017-12-27
Packaged: 2019-02-20 00:53:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,931
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13135740
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dragongoats/pseuds/dragongoats
Summary: The Hawke family survives the blight, against all odds. Hawke struggles with a  family who would prefer to follow a fictional story rather than reality.





	The Lies We Tell

**Author's Note:**

> Following the idea proposed by others that Thedas has magical HRT elixirs. (Athenril has a good health plan)
> 
> Leandra does not strike me as the type to understand a trans Hawke due to her pretty rigid ideas of gender and adherence to propriety. Though I think she wants what's best for her kids, she doesn't quite know what that means and handles it poorly. 
> 
> Bethany and Carver are both alive and similarly struggle to understand their new brother.
> 
> This is the exploration of these dynamics. 
> 
> Eventual Anders/Hawke.

The Hawke family fled the blight and began their life in Kirkwall. The sister they had known ceased to be, though they gained a brother. But Leandra Hawke could not accept this. For years, she cried, to any who would listen, that her _little girl_ was lost to her forever.

 And the Hawke family, dutifully, continued to tell this tale.

* * *

 

 

The sun was setting, casting the rough white-washed walls of the docks in an orange glow, by the time Hawke and his companions finally exited the small hovel.

Hawke peered up at the horizon and the light as it flickered off the water, and squinted. They had been sent on another retrieval mission, one so much like countless others. Yet on this occasion the cargo had turned out to be a few boxes of fermenting fish. It was decidedly not the expensive, illegal Orlesian Port they’d been told to expect.

Several dark shadows descended from the rooftops, the metal of their daggers glinting in the low light.

With practiced ease, Hawke spun his staff around his body and readied a sleep spell.

“I was wondering when the ambush was going to arrive,” Hawke said cheerfully, tossing his siblings a smirk.

Carver sprang into action and took down several of the attackers with a wide swipe of his blade. “Pay attention, Brother,” he chastised as he blocked a sword from cutting Hawke through.

“I am,” Hawke said and grinned. With a casual flick of his wrist he froze several people solid in front of him. He flicked the nose of one of them and cackled as it chipped off and fell to the dusty road.

Bethany sighed heavily as she reigned fire down upon unsuspecting stragglers. “Perhaps don’t antagonize them further, hmm?”

Isabella appeared at Hawke’s side in a flash of smoke and ash. She purred into Hawke’s ear, sending a thrill through him. “But where’s the fun in that…”

Hawke turned to face Isabella and wrapped her up in his arms, kissing her quickly. She hurled a poisoned dagger over his shoulder at a man with an offensively large axe who was barreling towards them. The motion was so fluid and practiced, Hawke couldn’t help but feel a pang of pride.

“I love it when you do that,” Hawke said then spun around to cast fear on several others.

“I know,” Isabella said meaningfully, following it up with a salacious wink.

“Maker’s breath you two, will you focus!” Bethany snapped, breathing hard.

Varric yelled out over the fray, similarly winded: “If you two keep going at it you’re going to make Bianca twitchy, and that’s never good.” He let loose another series of bolts. The twanging sound, oddly soothing in the cooling evening air.

Bethany’s voice held a wry note: “And then I’ll have to be the one to heal Carver, and the last time…”

“The last time you tried a ‘healing’ spell, I got ice all over my side. Frozen water is not healing.” Carver retorted, somewhat fondly.

Bethany’s mood seemed to pick up at the familiar banter. “It stopped the bleeding, didn’t it?”

Carver huffed and parried another onslaught. “Not the point!”

Varric bit out a laugh. “Junior, considering your sister’s preference for setting things ablaze, I’d count myself lucky.”

“Gratitude, finally!” Bethany said, easily taking down another several rogues who had wandered too close to her flames.

The fight didn’t last long. It never did, what with the chaotic onslaught of kicked bottles of miasma, horrific spellcasting, and sharp blades.

Hawke dusted off his pants and strapped in his staff. He clapped together his hands and observed the destruction. “Well. That’s that. Who’s up for a drink? I know I am.”

Isabella finished looting pockets and sauntered past Hawke, all rounded curves and seduction. “Come find me later, I have an itch to scratch. If you know what I mean.”

Hawke grinned at her, openly appraising the intoxicating movement of her hips and thighs as she disappeared around the corner.

Carver scowled, a look of disgust on his face. “Brother, do you have to do this in front of us?”

“Its all part of my charm.” Hawke said, smirking.

Carver narrowed his eyes and sheathed his sword. He stood steps from Hawke, and placed his hand on Hawke’s shoulder. Hawke looked up at him with surprise at the friendly gesture.

“Brother… your beard is on fire,” Carver said, voice flat.

Hawke’s smile faltered momentarily. Without thinking, he started to touch his face, to see if it was in fact, on fire.

A blast of ice hit him square in the face, the shock of it extinguishing any lingering flame and any feelings of camaraderie of the past few moments.

"You're welcome," Bethany said then stormed off, arcane energy and ice crackling in her wake.

That drink, Hawke thought bitterly, was sounding better and better. The others stifled nervous laughter but otherwise followed along in silence.

 

*

Hawke shuffled his feet along the dusty road, as he crossed the short distance from Gamlen’s hovel to the Hanged Man. He ran his hands through his hair, trying to dispel the tension that returning home always built up.

He’d needed a fresh change of clothes, ones that weren’t stained with sweat, blood and dirt. This had the unfortunate necessity of seeing his siblings disappointed frowns and his mother’s silent indifference. He hadn’t stayed a moment longer than necessary.

He’d long ago stopped looking to his mother when he crossed the threshold. Where she would look up expectantly for Bethany and Carver, her face would turn sharp and look decidedly away when Hawke was the face who met hers. The pain had been acute at first, but dulled with time. He felt the thick layer of callous over his very heart.

This made him a good mercenary, not such a great Brother or friend.

He rarely slept at home anymore, choosing instead to drink himself until he fell asleep at the barstool or in the arms of whoever happened to be by that evening. Lately, that had been into Isabella’s warm embrace, which had the advantage of having a soft, clean bed at the end of it and no worry about having one’s purse cut--or at least, Isabella would be polite about it.

Hawke leaned his shoulder into the heavy door of the dive bar. It groaned under the strain, its rusted hinges protesting but eventually giving way.

The smell assaulted Hawke’s senses first, as it always did. The heady aroma of dubious alcohol, sweat, and despair permeated every surface, no matter how much one cleaned.

A fresh spray of blood decorated a corner of the floor and a group of mercenaries stood about, their daggers visible. They stood in what they likely considered an aggressive stance. Hawke scoffed, he took out idiot men like that several times a night without breaking a sweat. Men and their swords.

He neared the barkeep and gestured vaguely at the newest addition to the décor. “Corff! Love what you’ve done to the place. Really livens it up!” Hawke said brightly.

Corff’s moustache twitched and he brought up a pint of ale. The thick glass was clouded and scratched. It landed with a heavy thud when he placed it down.

Hawke nodded his thanks and downed a quarter of it. It tasted foul. But that was to be expected. It was a means to an end, not the main course.

Isabella was no where to be seen however. None of the warm glow of dark skin, nor flash of opulent, likely stolen, jewelry. Her usual place of residence at the bar was decidedly vacant.

Corff paused wiping out a glass with a dirty cloth, and cleared his throat. “Your uh, pirate friend left a message. Seeing as you’re such good customers, it was no matter.”

Hawke raised an eyebrow and took another deep sip.

“Said to have fun without her, that she’d found a big sword.” Corff said, then shrugged, not caring for any explanation.

Hawke almost choked on his ale. “Thanks, Corff.”

Corff merely grunted, then went back to his drying, and soon he was whistling a merry tune.

Hawke chuckled at Isabella’s whimsical nature, he could imagine precisely the kind of sword she meant. Still, the regularity of their arrangement, however casual, made him feel slightly disappointed. She was stunning, after all.

Hawke shook his head and looked back towards Varric’s room. He wondered if Varric would be up for a game of cards, but continued to idly survey the nights’ customers anyway. If Bella was busy, there were plenty other ‘swords’ here. Any port in a storm, or so Isabella would say, or some other delightfully dirty pirate euphemism.

He downed another pint, the alcohol beginning to numb the familiar lonely ache, when he saw a tall, horned Qunari stalk in.  
The man was without a sword, which made his status as Tal-Vashoth clear enough. He was likely a mercenary, but kept the shirtless style of his compatriots. Hawke smirked loudly and waved down the new comer.

The mystery Qunari’s shoulders were wonderfully broad, and he stood several heads taller than Hawke. He smelled inviting, like sandy beaches and sweat.

Hawke raised an eyebrow and gestured to the seat near him. A grin pulled at his lips.

“Fancy a drink?”

 

*

The Qunari lay on his stomach, hands gripping the scratchy fabric of the bedsheets. His horns bobbed as he gasped for air, pleasurable gasps escaping his lips.

The room was cheap; the cheapest at the Hanged man. It could hardly be described as clean, dust gathered in the corners and the bedsheets were patterned with ancient stains that did not bare close scrutinizing.

Hawke moved in heavy, slow thrusts. The bedposts squeaked as they shifted against the wood flooring. If this had been his home in Lothering, he’d have found a position—such as a wall or floor—that would cause less audible evidence of their exertions. But this wasn’t home, and Hawke could care less. The Hanged man’s customers were hardly discerning, nor concerned too much about propriety.

The Qunari groaned under the weight of Hawke and pushed back eagerly. His muscled shoulders, almost the size of Hawke’s waist, bunched and flexed. Each slick slide and hard impact had Hawke losing his focus, his body clenching. The alcohol had sufficiently numbed his mind and his skin thrummed pleasantly.

He tried to be a considerate lover, even with strangers for whom he did not care to know their name, but _Maker this felt good_.

Then the door kicked open. The aged wooden frame complained, and stale dust kicked up into the air.

Isabella loomed at the threshold, hip cocked in interest. When she noticed who Hawke’s bedmate was, a flash of something like fear passed over her face, before it was replaced with a cock-sure grin.

“Well isn’t this sweet,” She purred.

Hawke bit back a curse and tried to glare at the intruder. “I thought you found a ‘sword’.” Hawke snapped his hips, heedless of the audience. The Quanari groaned plaintively, either unconcerned or unaware of the newcomer.

Isabella giggled, a warm, pleasant sound. “Turns out, it lacked dexterity. It was thoroughly disappointing.” She gave Hawke an exaggerated once over, and wiggled her brows.

“Come find me later. Your sword never disappoints. And I’m up for a good dual,” Isabella said, leaving them in peace.

Hawke chuckled, then groaned as his bedmate rolled his hips and growled, “again.”

Hawke could only oblige. With each slide he let all his cares slip away, lost somewhere between breathless moans, sweat-stained sheets, and protesting bedframes.


End file.
